


Language of Love

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, First Time, Foreign Language Porn, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 03:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: Sherlock wants to brush up his German.  The source he chooses leads  to some unexpected events, featuring awkward conversations, the misuse of a fountain pen and the usual misunderstandings. But they figure it out in the end.





	Language of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for **Missmuffin221**! Happy birthday, dear! I tried to include two of your major kinks - porn in German and the thing with the thighs. I hope you like it.

_"Oh, Herr Doktor, schauen Sie nur, ich glaube, mit meinem Schwengel stimmt was nicht." - "Das kann ich mir nicht vorstellen, Rudi, zeig mal her." - "Hier, schauen Sie nur, wie groß er ist. Und so hart. Und vorne tropft es raus." - "Hm, das muss ich mir genauer ansehen. Bück dich vornüber. Ja, das ist doch mal eine schöne Aussicht. Sag mal, steckst du dir manchmal was in dein Poloch, Rudi?"_

John has been reading the papers, not really paying attention what Sherlock is up to on his laptop. After all, he has this strange case on in which two German tourists seem to play a vital role. Therefore, it's no surprise that Sherlock, vain git that he is, wants to brush up his language skills to be able to interrogate said tourists in their mother tongue. That's why John had thought nothing of it as snippets of a conversation in a foreign language filled their living room. It had been filled with worse (toxic fumes and deadly assassins among them).

Only when characteristic noises, that are usually unheard of at three o’clock in the afternoon in their sitting room, emanate from the laptop speakers does John suddenly sit up, pricking up his ears.

“What are you doing over there?” he asks, getting up from his chair and walking over to Sherlock, who stares somewhat perturbed on the laptop screen.

“Research?” Sherlock answers, but it sounds doubtful.

“What exactly are you…? Oh my god!”

“Indeed, John.”

“And what is he doing with his…?”

Sherlock slams the laptop shut.

“That was…,” he starts.

“Yes.” John agrees.

“You don’t even know what I wanted to say, John.” Sherlock protests, obviously miffed for being talked over.

“Well, anything you might want to say has already crossed my mind, believe me.”

“Anything?” Sherlock tilts his head in this peculiarly unnerving way of his that gets John’s palms all sweaty while his heart flutters in his chest.

“Sure, mate.” John wants to retreat back to the safety of his armchair and hide behind the broadsheet, but stays frozen to the spot. Somehow, the atmosphere in the room has changed. It feels charged all of a sudden.

“And you agree? On whatever it is I was about to say?” Sherlock sounds inquisitive.

“Is this one of your games, Sherlock?” John asks brusquely by way of deflecting. He doesn’t like being toyed with.

“Call it a little challenge.” Sherlock’s smile isn’t exactly friendly.

“Ok.” John exhales. “Challenge accepted. I wholeheartedly agree. What were you about to say? What lunatic opinion of yours did I just consent to? Spit it out.”

“I was about to say that what we’ve both witnessed on that screen is exactly what I want you to do to me on a daily basis. Preferably twice.”

It's suddenly very quiet in their flat. Sherlock just looks up at John, unblinking, not even blushing. Yet, John knows him, knows him well. He can spot the uncertainty behind his bold verve in the little twitch of Sherlock’s mouth, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, his arched left eyebrow.

This is not a drill, John realises. This is the real thing. A giant leap, especially for Sherlock.

“You want me...?” John falls silent again.

“Yes.”

John has to clear his throat. “To do this... to you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hesitates. “But if you are not amiable...?” He's already losing his nerve, back-paddling as long as it can still be brushed off as some kind of joke between... mates. Only, they never were exceptionally matey. John has to stop Sherlock before he once again clamps up and retreats into his shell.

_Pull yourself together, Watson!_ “Oh, I am. Amiable, that is. Very. Very amiable.”

They stare at each other for a whole minute until John turns and runs for the loo, locking the door behind himself.  
\----------  
_Breathe, Watson. Calm down. You invaded Afghanistan._

“John? Is everything all right?” Sherlock sounds somewhat concerned, a rare occasion at 221b.

“Sure, Sherlock. I just... need a minute.” God! Oh. My. God! What is he supposed to do?

“Take a shower, John.”

“Yes. Splendid idea.”

“Be diligent. I prefer my Doctor clean shaven.”

John sucks in a breath. Jesus! They'll have to work on Sherlock's take on innuendo.

He soaps himself very, very thoroughly under the scalding spray, paying especially close attention to his nether regions, before shaving exceptionally careful. Should he bother with getting dressed again? It seems superficial. But his terry cloth robe is hardly sexy. Should he emerge naked? Might be a bit too blatant, even for Sherlock. He decides on a towel, riding low on his hips. After taking a few deep breaths, Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers leaves the bathroom to ravish his flatmate. Hopefully, it ends more successful than his Afghan campaign.

He finds said flatmate already naked, draped over the desk in their sitting room, legs spread, bum in the air. The stacks of papers, books and half empty mugs that usually clutter the table top have been put on the floor, making the approach rather difficult.

John has to concentrate hard and keep his eyes on the treacherous ground as not to trip and loose the towel in the process. Therefore, he only encounters what Sherlock has been up to when he stands behind him.

Sherlock is clawing at the desk with his left hand, while his right impatiently tries to shove a fountain pen up his arse. The angle is awkward, and Sherlock's face contorts in pain.

“Sherlock, what the hell!” John exclaims, pushing Sherlock's hand away, stopping the stupid git from violating his rectum any further. The fountain pen falls to the floor.

“John!” Sherlock whines. “I was supposed to be preparing myself so we could have intercourse.”

“But not like this, you idiot! A pen?”

“It was a gift from Mycroft! As if I'd need a fountain pen.”

John might get whiplash from how vigorously he shakes his head. “And without lubrication!” He exclaims.

“But in that movie...”

“That's _porn_ , Sherlock! That's not... how it works in reality.” John strokes his fingertips tenderly down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock sulks anyway. “Well, Doctor Three Continents Watson, then tell me, how _does_ this work!” He snarls, sounding rather preposterous for a naked man who just tried – and failed – to put an unsuitable object up his arse.

“Well, don't you know?” John mumbles in a low voice, transfixed as he stares down at his hands on Sherlock's body.

“Obviously not!”

Oh. _OH._ John has to suppress the impulse to lock himself back in the loo as Sherlock's words sink in. “Shit, sorry, you really don't know, do you, Sherlock?” _Smooth, Watson!_ John's heart clenches as he looks down at the equally beautiful and infuriating man beneath him.

He's on the verge of uttering something unforgivable affectionate when said man breaks his reverie by asking incredulously: “How complicated can it possibly be? It's simple biology. Insert part A in orifice B – and rut.”

“There's a bit more to it, actually.”

“What?” Sherlock huffs.

“Passion. Feelings. That sort of thing.” John blushes. This is decidedly not his area, but some things have to be spelled out for Sherlock.

“Unnecessary. I doubt those two men in the film had feelings for each other.” Sherlock makes it sound like something he wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole – and that says something.

“But I have. For you.” John blurts out, paling now – with anger. “Therefore, I won't just insert part A into orifice B – as you so colourful put it. Good night, Sherlock!”

John turns and is about to leave, but Sherlock grabs his wrist. “It's only half past three in the afternoon, John.” He points out.

“So what! I'm tired. Of this.” John tries to pull away, but Sherlock's grip tightens.

“Don't.”

“Let go!”

“John... I'm sorry?”

John deflates. God, this impossible prat will one day be the death of him.

“Ok. Get up. My room. Now. No, don't open your mouth. Just come with me.”

John makes a point of climbing the stairs first. There’s no way that he will stare at Sherlock's naked, lush arse ascending the steps up to his room. The idea alone is enough to make John's cock stir beneath the towel.

Up in his room, he tells Sherlock to walk over to his small bed. “Get in. Lie down.”

Sherlock lies on his back, hands at either side, as if awaiting a not particularly pleasant examination.

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed!” Sherlock bites out.

“Fine. Good.”

John climbs in next to him. There's not much room in his single bed, especially when accommodating six foot of lanky consulting detective. Very naked consulting detective. For the first time, John allows his eyes to take in Sherlock's gloriously pale frame, all firm, lean muscle beneath taut alabaster skin. His nipples are a dusty pink. His flaccid cock rests in a nest of wiry auburn curls. He looks delectable. Fuckable.

If it wasn't for the frown on his face, the firmly closed lips, the flaring nostrils.

Gently, John turns Sherlock's face towards himself. He knows he has to do something right now, or this will end in disaster before it had even properly begun.  
John lightly brushes his thumb over the crease between Sherlock's prominent eyebrows. “Hey, I mean it. Breathe. It's all fine. I haven't done this either. Not with a bloke, that is. I promise, if you don't panic, I won't panic.”

“I'm not panicking.” Sherlock glares, but despite the scorn in his voice, his fists unclench and his chest heaves as he draws a deep breath.

“Of course not.” John agrees, and bows down and presses his lips against Sherlock's.

They feel surprisingly soft. Though unrelenting. Sherlock just lies very still – is he even breathing? - and lets John's lips touch his.

_Ok, here we go._

John very tenderly brushes the tip of his tongue against Sherlock's lower lip, then opens his mouth and sucks lightly. He closes his eyes and tilts his head just a little bit, changing the angle. Eventually, Sherlock seems to catch on and gives in a little. His mouth relaxes under John's pressure, and suddenly John’s tongue slips past Sherlock's lips and collides with the tip of that usually so very acerbic tongue.

John exhales through his nose, pent up tension leaving his body. His hand comes up and rakes through Sherlock's curls, resting on the back of his head. They kiss, careful at first, exploratory, before their mouths become bolder, their tongues pushing in deeper. Sherlock is a rather good kisser – well, what is the man actually bad at, apart from social niceties? Even if he hasn't done this before (not even snogging? John can't believe this, but then, it's Sherlock “alone protects me” Holmes), he's nothing if not quick on the uptake.

John dares to risk a soft bite to Sherlock's lower lip which - thank god! - elicits a deep growl from the man next to him. Encouraged by this, John's mouth leaves Sherlock's and starts to travel down his neck, nipping, sucking.

The sounds Sherlock makes are downright obscene. John can not only hear them, but feel the vibration beneath his lips. God, this is hot! He rotates his hips involuntary, pressing his by now raging erection against Sherlock's prominent hip bone, and ruts.

Sherlock tenses, shuffling away.

“What?” John asks, dazed, opening his eyes to stare at Sherlock's flushed face, kiss-swollen red lips still wet. John realises Sherlock swallows nervously as he blinks him into focus, commanding at least some of his blood to return to his brain and perform some basic cerebral functions. “Sherlock, what is it. You all right?”

“Is that...?” Sherlock asks, his voice slightly shaking.

John gives him an inquisitive look.

“Is that your erection?”

They both look down John's body. The towel has ridden up on his hips and is obviously tented, but still hides most of John's cock.

“Well, I guess.” John answers. Then it dawns on him. Sherlock needs data. “Do you want to take a peek?”

Sherlock immediately rips the towel away – and gasps. Outright gasps! Well, John knows he's rather impressive, but this reaction, coming from Sherlock of all people, who doesn't as much as raise an eyebrow when encountering a severed head in the fridge, is a welcome compliment. John's cock twitches in return, and Sherlock's eyes go wide.

“I miscalculated.” He confesses, sounding confused. “You are much bigger than a fountain pen.”

John grins. “I should hope so.”

But as he glances up at Sherlock, his face falls. Because Sherlock looks outright terrified. Shit! Think, Watson! Say something, or this gorgeous creature will bolt from your bed, likely never to return.

“You know, we don't have to... put this part in any of your orifices, if that's what's bothering you.” Not the greatest come hither line ever uttered in the history of human intercourse, but hey, John is operating on about just a third of the usual blood circulation, as most of it pools down south, so he's sure he deserves some leniency here.

“But what's the point of this exercise if there's no penetration?” Sherlock yells frustrated. “In that video...”

“If you mention that film ever again, I swear I'll tie you down and force you to watch all seven Star Wars movies with me. Even the one's with Jar Jar Binks.” Sherlock's mouth snaps shut. “Listen, there's much more to sex than just penetration. No, don't say anything, Sherlock. This is, for once, my area, so lie back and enjoy.” And with that, John resumes plundering Sherlock's mouth before moving down his throat to suck on one of those dusty pink nipples until it's a hard, glistening nub.

As Sherlock arches up into his mouth, sucking is suddenly not enough. John bites down, gently, and Sherlock makes that noise again, velvety dark and mesmerising. John's hand curls around Sherlock's erection all of its own account and starts to loosely stroke.

Sherlock is already leaking. John can use his precome as natural lubricant, smearing it over the slit, glans and down his hard shaft. He can feel Sherlock pulsing in his fist. God! This is not going to last very long.

And then John Watson has an idea.

“Turn on your side, face the wall.” He huffs. As Sherlock hesitates, John explains: “No, I'm not going to put my cock into you just like that, Sherlock.” As Sherlock just stares at him, doubtful, John feels something aching in his chest. “Don't worry.” He reassures Sherlock, brushing an errant curl from his forehead. “I promise.”

Slowly, Sherlock rolls onto his side while John rummages around in the drawer of the bedside cabinet until he finds the lube. He squelches a generous amount of it into his palm and coats his cock with it.

“Spread your legs a bit.”

“John, you said...”

But Sherlock nonetheless bends his knee, and John pulls it upwards to reach between his legs, smearing his inner thighs, his perineum and his balls with yet more lube.

“John, aren't you acquainted with basic human anatomy. This is not where my... oh. _Oh!_ ” Sherlock suddenly twists around and almost knocks John off the bed. “Brilliant! You are brilliant, John Watson!” And Sherlock snogs him so forcefully that a rather large amount of lube lands on the sheets. Nevermind, John has the intention to get them properly soiled very soon, anyway.

When they have to part to breathe, Sherlock rolls back on his left side and presses his thighs together, even crossing his ankles. John shuffles up behind him, his chest pressed against Sherlock's back, sliding his left arm beneath Sherlock's shoulder to play with his nipples while his other hand reaches around his waist to return to Sherlock's dripping cock.

And then he pushes in, right between Sherlock's slick, firm thighs. It’s tight. It's hot. It's slippery. It's amazing. John starts to rock his hips, pumping Sherlock's cock in time, and soon they are both panting, sweating, gasping.

“God, you are so wet for me, love.” John whispers in Sherlock's ear, pinching his nipple with one hand while the thumb of the other slides over Sherlock's slit. Sherlock writhes and squirms in his arms, moaning filthy encouragement in that deep baritone of his to spur John on.

“Yes, John. Faster. Please. Touch me. God, your cock. It's so big. Oh god...”

“That's it, Sherlock, let go. Jesus, you feel so good. You are amazing. Gorgeous. So fucking hot.”

John adds a little twist to each stroke, massaging Sherlock's frenulum with his thumb. Suddenly, Sherlock's breath hitches and John can feel yet more wet stickiness on his fingers. Sherlock bucks violently into his fist, his breathing ragged, as a strained shout erupts from his mouth.

_“Jo-ohn!”_ He sounds equal parts shocked, surprised and utterly pleased.

John speeds up as he can feel Sherlock's whole body clench before going almost boneless. Just a few more thrusts, and he's coming as well, spilling his come between Sherlock's strong, pale legs.

Later, he discovers that he must have bitten down on Sherlock's shoulder, as he encounters teeth marks on that milky, slightly freckled skin. This draws yet another spurt from Sherlock's by now sensitive cock, and he hisses in a mix of pain and pleasure. John quickly removes his hand from Sherlock's groin, smearing the gooey mess all over Sherlock's abdomen, pressing his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades, holding him close.

He just needs a moment. He wants to stay like this and never let go. It’s bloody perfect. Until Sherlock's hand comes round to gently pet his arse.

“John?” He sounds somewhat husky.

“Nghhhn...” John hums as a response.

“I can't breathe.”

John abruptly lets go of the shagged-out beauty that somehow has found the way into his bed. Sherlock turns around and catches him before he hits the floor. John holds onto Sherlock's biceps, realising too late that his hand is still smeared with lube and come.

“Sorry.” He splutters.

“Nevermind.” Sherlock retorts primly.

They snicker.

The sheets are ruined, there's lube, sweat and semen everywhere and they desperately need a shower, but for now, they'll stay in bed together and giggle like the lovesick idiots they are.

John lies close to Sherlock, his head on the taller man's shoulder – there's just not enough room in this bed to keep one's distance, even if he'd wanted to – when Sherlock asks somewhat shyly: “As for penetration...?”

“Don't worry. We'll get there. All in good time.”

John rakes his hand through Sherlock's mop of impossibly tousled curls and seals that promise with another deep kiss.

“Sherlock, can I just ask you a question?” John says after he's pulled away a few heated minutes later.

“You already did, John.”

“Tosser.” John smiles and playfully whacks Sherlock with a pillow. “About that movie you were watching...”

“I thought it should never be named again?” Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

“This is not about the sex. It's about the language. What might _Schwengel_ mean?”

Sherlock shrugs before stretching like a lazy, shagged out, six foot cat that got all the cream. “Haven't the faintest, John. But isn't German such an expressive language when it comes to sex?”

“If you say so.” John yawns before closing his eyes and snuggling up close to his lover. “I'll buy you a dictionary if it gets you in the mood. Just no more _porn_ in a foreign language, ok?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums dreamily. “What do you think about French, though? _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Schwengel actually means cock.


End file.
